Friends
by Ocarina Rune Scholar
Summary: Why isn't Rosie on the character list? She's the second character, y'know. I was curious about Frodo vs. Rosie, so I wrote a sappy little scene for just them. (Fear not, Sam-lovers!) R & R, please!


A tisket, a tasket, a red and yellow basket! *giggle* I'm happy and sad both together. I also promised the Onion that I'd post this…so here it is!

Disclaimer: As much as I would like to, I don't own anything concerning Middle-earth. Kudos to Tolkien for being such a wonderful writer.

***

A lonely breeze wafted over the Shire; regardless of pathways or crossroads, it flew straight over Hobbiton to Bag End. Frodo Baggins closed his eyes and tilted his head back a little, enjoying the puff of warm air on the cool spring evening.

The light rustle of cloth against grass made him look to his left. Rosie Cotton – now Rosie Gamgee – was coming up the hill toward him, bearing a small tray.

"Hullo, Rosie," he said warmly, raising a hand in greeting. "What brings you up here?"

The pretty hobbitwife reached him in a moment. She sat down besides him and handed him the tray.

"I thought you might like a bite to eat, Mr. Frodo," she explained respectfully. "It's just some fresh-baked scones and a mug of warm cider, but, if you want something else, I can get it."

"Oh, thank you, Rosie. This is just fine." He smiled gratefully and picked up a scone, but made no move to eat it. Instead, his eyes wandered to the magnificent view of the Shire that he had, leaning against the tree atop Bag End.

Rosie watched with a sort of mingled awe and curiosity. She knew, as every hobbit worth his buttons did, that Frodo was a great hero, both in their own land and in the unfamiliar lands outside their borders, but little was known to any hobbit (except, of course, Sam, Pippin, and Merry) of his personality, and just what changes his quest had brought about in him. The far-off look in his eyes spoke of some unspoken longing; of what, she knew not.

"Beg pardon, Mr. Frodo," she said suddenly, "but..." She hesitated a moment before continuing. "What's on your mind? Not Hobbiton or Bywater, I'll wager."

Frodo looked sideways at her, much as Galadriel had done when he had first met her. The young hobbitwife was blushing fiercely, as if ashamed at her own boldness.

"Things," he said vaguely after a moment. "Why do you ask?"

The words escaped Rosie's pansy-petal lips before she could stop them.

"I'm worried about you."

Frodo raised his eyebrows in silent question. Rosie's eyes dropped to her lap, where her nervous fingers toyed with one of her apron strings.

"Well, see..." she started faintly, "it's just that...well..."

"Yes?"

She took a deep breath and began again.

"It's just that, well, Sam's been awful worried about you, sir. He asked me to keep an eye on you, in case..." She faltered, hoping that the deepening twilight prevented Frodo from seeing her flaming blush.

"In case what?" The question was spoken softly; he was leaning towards her now, his head nearly touching hers. "Don't be afraid to tell me, Rosie. I don't mind."

Rosie sighed, dropping the apron string.

"Drink that cider afore it goes cold, sir," she muttered.

"Rosie." The tone was gentle and imploring. She looked up into Frodo's eyes – those haunting eyes, almost unnaturally large and blue. For a second, she thought she saw tears welling up at the corners, but they disappeared quickly, if they were there at all.

"What do you fear, Rosie?"

She turned away, almost cringing. Frodo's eyes widened in sudden realization.

"Are you afraid of _me_, Rosie?" he asked gently. She nodded dumbly, biting her lip.

"Why?"

A bird hidden in the tree's new growth of leaves exercised its vocal chords in a sudden twitter. Rosie started; her movement bumped the edge of the tray, making cider slosh onto Frodo's jerkin.

"Oh, no!" Rosie buried her face in her hands. "I'm awful sorry, Mr. Frodo, honest!"

"Oh, it's all right," replied Frodo good-naturedly, setting the tray carefully in the grass. "Just lend me your handkerchief a moment."

Rosie fumbled for a moment in her apron pocket, then pulled out a spotless white handkerchief, edged with delicate ivory lace. As she passed it to Frodo, their hands met in a lingering touch. Rosie gasped and withdrew her hand; Frodo frowned in confusion.

"What is it, Rosie?" he queried, tilting his head inquisitively. "What scares you so?"

For a moment, all was silent. The bird trilled again, more urgently. Frodo waited in expectant stillness.

"Well..." began Rosie haltingly, "I..." She faltered and dropped her gaze to Frodo's maimed hand. The sight seemed to renew her courage; she started again with new firmness under the tremble in her voice.

"I think I'm in love with you. That's what I'm afraid of."

There was another long silence. Frodo sighed and leaned heavily against the tree.

"So it's come to it, has it?" he murmured, half to himself. "Rosie..." His eyes narrowed. "You _can't_ love me, Rosie. It's too late for that."

Rosie nodded miserably.

"That's why I'm afraid."

Frodo looked quickly down at his jerkin. He half-heartedly mopped at the cider stain.

"I don't understand," he said softly. "You love Sam – you're _married_ to him, Rosie."

"Well, yes, I do." She looked up at the darkening sky. "But I've always loved Sam, and I think he's always loved me. It's not the same." A tear coursed down her cheek. "I don't understand it, either."

Frodo handed back the handkerchief, now damp and cider-scented. Rosie took it almost reverently.

"What can I do, Frodo?" she asked timidly. "Can I stop loving you?"

The bird trilled yet again, warbling uncertainly overhead. The breeze persisted in circling Bag End, carrying the aroma of fresh flowers from Sam's carefully-tended garden. Frodo smiled slightly, drinking in the warmth and comfort.

"Those are Sam's flowers," he said slowly. "He's a good hobbit, Rosie. Don't let me come between you and him."

Rosie looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Frodo's eyes were half-lidded in weariness; one hand – the uninjured one – was curled around the other, half-covering the empty space where his finger had been. He looked so weak and vulnerable. Rosie felt an urge to throw her arms around him, to promise to protect him, but she decided that the idea was absurd.

"I think I see now." Frodo's voice, barely louder than a whisper, almost echoed in the stillness of the deepening twilight. "You love me the way Sam does."

"What?"

"He's a protector, a faithful friend and guardian to me." He looked at her kindly. "Is that what you want, Rosie?"

"Oh, yes!" Rosie felt weak with relief. "Yes, exactly!" Her voice lowered. "It isn't wrong, then?"

"Not at all." Frodo smiled gently. "We'll be friends. A hobbit always needs friends."

"Friends, then." She extended her hand hopefully.

Frodo hesitated, then met her hand with his own. His fingers – those that were there – curled gently around Rosie's.

"Friends."

The bird hazarded one last twitter before settling down for the night. The moon rose slowly and majestically, casting a glistening ray of silver light on the two hobbits as they descended the hill together, carrying the tray and mug, but leaving the scones for the birds' breakfast. Their hands were clasped in friendship, no more, no less.

Friends.

***

© ORS 2002


End file.
